


Hollow Point

by Sugarpink



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: BAMF Women, Blood and Violence, Canon Character of Color, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chases, Drug Use, Eventual Relationships, Explicit Language, Female Friendship, Gen, Gun Violence, Major Original Character(s), Minor Canonical Character(s), Obsession, Original Character Death(s), Platonic Relationships, Possible Character Death, Robbery, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-11 03:04:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3311558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sugarpink/pseuds/Sugarpink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Always eager for profit, Brooklyn Frye wasn't afraid to lead a life of lawlessness and corruption to pay the bills. But the life she chose for herself has a price she might not be ready to pay. Learning that you can't hustle the hustlers, Brooke finds herself in the sights of one of San Andreas's nastiest criminals. When things turn into a deadly cycle of obsession and vengeance, she must fight to keep herself from being consumed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grave Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting a crash course in how to dispose of a body, Brooke is offered a job by Lamar Davis.

It had taken four hours to drive the body to its resting place in the wilderness. It took another two to get it in the ground. By the time it was in the grave, rigor mortise had already set in. There was talk of finding a dead animal to put on top of the body, in case the police used cadaver dogs to search the area. Put the corpse of large animal on top of the cadaver, and the police will think that the dogs had a false positive. If you can't find an animal, then you had better hope that the grave was deep enough.

Brooklyn Frye had become somewhat of an expert on this.

In the end, there had been no animals. Only a man curled up in his grave like a shrimp with red crusted over the side of his face and down his neck. It helped to disassociate herself from the dead man, trying to think of the whole ordeal as a chore rather than a crime. The fact that taking a life hadn't bothered her as much as it should have left her feeling numb. Where she expected to feel guilt was only a dull fatigue and an ache in her limbs. Sitting on the hood of her Asterope, Brooke gulped in warm morning air. She rolled her head back against her shoulder, watching the sun rise out of the sea through half-lidded eyes. The spots of blood on her shirt had dried to brown, stiffening with the splatters of grave mud. She kept her hands between her cool thighs, trying to hide what she imagined to be the smell of decay.

In the backseat of the Asterope, two dirty shovels lay, angled against the seat.

Brooke turned to the woman sitting next to her, watching as she crunched a Flow water bottle in her hands. Her hair, touched by the pale sun, hung nearly to her waist in ropes of braids. The smell of rain water and dirt clung to her clothes and warm brown skin, hanging around her like a mist. Every once in a while she brought the water bottle to her lips and drank from it, throat working. Then she would resume crunching it. Brooke winced each time she did it, an ice pick of pain growing behind her eye. She fought the urge to grab the bottle and throw it over the guardrail.

“I wish you'd stop,” Brooke said.

“And I wish you'd stop taking jobs from people that fool Lamar Davis introduces you to.”

“I needed the money, Leah.”

“What you need is some damn sense.”

Leah Shelton brought a long leg up, put her heel on the front bumper, and tossed the water bottle to the white sand below. She began to pick the grave dirt out from underneath her filed nails, cocking her eyebrow and gazing sharply to Brooke. It was a look that Brooke knew well from growing up with her, and one that made her begin to fidget. The silence between them grew heavy, and the longer it went on, the darker Brooke's tawny cheeks turned. Shame started to come then, creeping like an itch under her skin. Behind them, the Bayview Lodge was beginning to stir. Brooke bristled as she heard someone shout across its parking lot.

“I fucked up, okay? But, what was I supposed to do?” She said.

“Turn around and find a normal job like the rest of us regular folk."

“Fucking hell,” Brooke said. She laid back against the hood, throwing an arm over her eyes. Her shirt rode up, exposing a flat strip of stomach, her muscles firm from the many sessions at the tennis court.

“Ain't you worried about getting killed? What if the rest of the Vagos find out what you did?”

“They won't,” Brooke said and yawned.

“Because so far everything you've said has come true, hasn't it?” Leah said and leaned back next to Brooke, stretching and closing her eyes. “'Nothing will go wrong. I got this. I go in and get out. Don't worry, you won't need to help me bury a fucking body.' Sound familiar? You take one damn job, and what's the first thing you do? Clock some asshole.”

The corners of Brooke's mouth pulled down in a frown.

“No. No, we're not doing this now.”

“Don't I always when I have to help you clean up your messes?”

Brooke squirmed. Before, she hadn't wanted to call Leah. It wasn't just that she hadn't wanted to get her friend involved in something so heavy, it was a matter of pride. But standing in a parking lot in Vespucci Beach with her hands shaking and blue eyes gleaming, Brooke panicked. There was a dead man leaking grey matter from a broken hole in his temple in her trunk. Beneath the passenger seat was a kilo of cocaine wrapped in brown paper, dusted with sand. Pressing the cellphone hard against her ear, Brooke kept her eyes on the pitch-black waves, where the moon's reflection seemed like schools of silver fish. Somewhere beneath the waves was the man's cellphone, which she had thrown into the water after it had started ringing.

Leah answering, groggy. _It's midnight_ , she said.

 _I need help_.

_What did you do?_

Leah sharper now. She was always so sharp.

Explaining what had happened and Leah arriving with shovels. It had been her idea to take the man to the Chiliad Mountain State Wilderness. It had also been her idea to smash his teeth out with the blade of one of the shovels. Afterwards, pearl-like shards had clung to the bottom of her shoe like gravel. Now, Brooke closed her eyes and thought back to the image of the man in the hole--toothless and grinning, a bright red burn mark on his hip from the exhaust pipe under the trunk. He stared ahead as they flung dirt over him, one eye swimming in its socket.

“Thank you,” Brooke said, “I mean it--thanks.”

Leah made a neutral sound and slid off the hood of the car. She inspected a watery blister that had formed on the palm of her hand, her lips thinning as she flexed her fingers gingerly.

“C'mon. We should head back to Los Santos before we have people pulling up next to us. You drive,” Leah said, opening the passenger side door and looking over the roof of the car to the people lingering in the lodge's parking lot.

“Why do I always have to be one driving?” Brooke asked, moving around the side of the car. She dropped gracelessly into the driver's seat and twisted the key. With the purring engine came the dim sound of pop music pouring out of her speakers. “Everyone always wants me to fucking drive.”

“I'm not the one who pistol-whipped some poor motherfucker,” Leah replied.

“In self-defense,” Brooke said as she pulled the dark green sedan on to the highway.

“Girl, you lie, lie, lie.”

"I ain't lying. Who knows where I'd be if I hadn't? Huh? Did you think of that?"

"Show some respect and drive my tired ass back to the car. I want to get home."

The more she dwelled, however, the more Brooke could feel a defensive sort of impatience taking root inside of her. It twisted hard in her chest, tightening each time she considered the possibility of being in denial. She was grateful for the quiet drive home, knowing that she was prone to snapping. It was easier to inspect herself when she wasn't under the scrutiny of someone else. The idea of being a murderer surfaced occasionally like a shark's fin rising above the water, but she shoved it away when the thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Brooke rationalized: _he would have killed me if I hadn't done it_.

That was true enough to make her feel justified. But sneaking up behind a man wasn't self-defense. It was a cowardly thing that she would have condemned if anyone else had done it. Not for the first time, the word _hypocrite_ occurred to her. It came from nowhere, spoken in some other voice than her own. The word floated above her in venomous letters, dripping into her hair and on her skin. She was willing to admit that she was probably depraved, but the thought of her own hypocrisy burned her like acid.

Brooke was still obsessing long after the highway opened to Los Santos. The city welcomed them home in a humming embrace of commercialism and manic energy. Its culture of the famous and fame-obsessed wrapped itself around every aspect of the city, touching everything in either lunacy or luxury. The heavy traffic moved like blood through clogged arteries, forcing them to an almost complete stop at times. They crept now along the luxurious houses of Pacific Bluffs, which blocked the jewel-blue ocean from sight. Gleaming convertibles sat in driveways, waxed and waiting for their owners. The smell of exhaust was smothering, causing Brooke to roll up the windows in the car, her eyes stinging.

 _Hypocrites,_ she thought.

And then, almost dismally, she thought, _like me._

Brooke stared into the heatwaves that rose off the street. Everything felt slow and drippy, as though the sun was causing it all to melt like wax. Colors pulled themselves downwards and the music from the radio came out in heavy strings. Distantly, she could hear the butt of her pistol cracking against bone again and again and

_(answer your phone)_

again. It takes at least eight years for a body to decompose into a skeleton, having to go through all six stages of decay. Depending on the circumstances, it could take up to twelve. That was almost a decade that she'd have to worry about someone discovering the grave. It was far from any trail, tucked under the lip of an overhanging rock and covered by a blanket of leaves and brush. But shit happens. Shit was always happening.

 _(brooke your phone_ )

Just like when she heard the phone going off in the man's pocket. Felt it vibrate against her as she drug his body further beneath the pier. Not thinking, just acting as she quickly fished it out and flung it into the sea. How long after it sunk into the depths did it keep--

“--ringing.”

“What?”

“Your phone,” Leah said, holding out the silver iFruit.

It's tinkling ring blurted out on repeat, to which Brooke blinked dully. Taking the phone and seeing the name LAMAR flash in bold letters, she swiped her thumb over the screen and brought it to her ear. The world swam back into clarity, as though she were waking from a deep sleep.

“'Lo?”

“Hey, what's up, shorty?”

“In traffic,” She said, “dropping off Leah. It's been a long night.”

“Leah with you? Tell her that her boy L.D. says that she need to come around more often and say hi to a homie.”

“Motherfucker, you tell her. You know her Lifeinvader.”

“Yeah, but she blocked me.”

“With good reason,” Brooke said and grinned wearily.

“Yeah, yeah. So, you gonna go see Gerald soon? Brother be calling me last night, wondering where his shit was. You must have done something fucked up for that anti-social motherfucker to actually call.”

“Your boy is going to get his stuff. I have the package and everything.”

Over the phone came sounds of Lamar snapping his fingers, followed by the faint tinkling of dog tags and wet snuffling. In her mind's eye, Brooke could see his dog—a heavy rottweiler who answered to the name Chop—attempting to get his attention.

“He better, that's all I'm saying. I mean, I stuck my neck out for you, girl. You gotta be making us both look good,” Lamar said. Brooke heard the quiet sounds of Chop panting in the background. “But, hey. If you ain't busy later, you wanna make some paper or not?”

“Depends on what you have in mind,” Brooke said and glanced to Leah. She was pretending to be interested in the sleek red car that had pulled up next to them, her head turned away from Brooke.

“We doing a little home invasion over in El Burro Heights, and since shorty is broke and likes to drive, I thought you may want a business opportunity,” Lamar said. A grim tone edged his voice, as it often did when he spoke of such plans.

“What about Frank?” She asked. “Doesn't he usually help you with this kind of thing?”

“He been busy with some creeper dude up in Rockford Hills. Ain't got no time for his homies anymore. C'mon, you in?”

Brooke drummed a finger on the steering wheel, staring ahead. She sucked in a breath and held it, aware that Leah was likely to be picking apart her words.

“Yeah, okay. Sure,” She said finally. Her headache was growing worse, turning into a steady throb.

“Hell yeah, I knew you couldn't let your boy down!” Lamar said, “I'll call later with details, dig?”

“Right. Be seeing you.”

Hanging up, Brooke tucked the iFruit down in the cup holder, sniffing and pushing fluffy curls of hair out of her face. Shade engulfed them as they headed into a tunnel, the acoustics causing the sounds of the cars to echo. When Brooke refused to acknowledge her, Leah cleared her throat. Out of the corner of her eye, Brooke watched as she extended her hand and turned the radio off.

“What was that bullshit about?” She asked. Her tone was calm and cool.

“What bullshit?” Brooke asked.

“What's that motherfucker want now?”

“Nothing for Gerald, if that's what you're wondering,” Brooke said and sniffed again.

“Uh-huh. You gonna tell me the truth?” Leah asked.

“It is the truth— _OW_!” Brooke yelped when she felt Leah's nails pinch hard into the side of her neck.

The Asterope jerked to the right, causing a series of honks to blare around them as they cut sharply into the next lane. Beside her, Leah slammed her hand against the door, bracing herself. For one terrible moment, Brooke saw the sedan crashing, sending sprays of glass out from the windows. Metal crunching and tearing. She saw her nose smashing against the steering wheel, breaking and bleeding down her front. Letting out a strangled cry, Brooke spun the wheel to keep from colliding into the side of the tunnel. Someone was shouting at them, but their anger was muffled and distant.

“What the fuck was that _what the fuck was that_?!” Brooke demanded in a shrill voice, her eyes wide and wild.

“Listen to me, Brooklyn Frye, and you listen good. I ain't going to watch you get killed just because some stupid-ass wannabes need to go and mess around with shit best left alone! _Now what's going on?_ ”

“I don't fucking know! All I know is that it's just robbing someone! I'm probably just going to end up being the getaway driver anyway! Jesus,” Brooke said, touching the spot that Leah had pinched and hissing through her teeth. A knot was forming already.

“Okay,” Leah said, “so now what? You commit a murder and now you gonna go rob someone? What kind of moron does that?”

“I know what I'm good at, and it's not the honest dollar thing,” Brooke said, growing red, “so who cares? Who the fuck cares? I don't need to justify myself, especially to someone that I watched kick the teeth out of a dead man's face. _So fuck you.”_

Silence, thick and heavy as a thunderhead. Brooke breathed heavily, clutching the wheel with numb hands. Beside her, Leah sighed and sunk back into the seat. Coming out of the tunnel now and into daylight, she flipped down the visor to try and shield her eyes from the sun.

“I just worry, girl. I do,” She said gently.

Brooke blinked furiously, her eyes feeling hot. She swallowed and felt her throat stick together. “Yeah, me too,” She said.

 _I'm worried because I fucked up or that I left something unfinished,_ Brooke thought. _I'm worried that the dead man in the mountains will come back for me._


	2. The White Rhino Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After breaking into the home of a drug dealer, Brooke and Lamar are left with a bigger problem than before.

You couldn't say that Lamar Davis was stupid—because he wasn't. But you couldn't say that his plans were well-executed—because they weren't. He had a backwards sort of genius that ran on a never ending supply of luck, on which the success of his schemes usually relied. Despite this, he had become Brooke's main link to the Chamberlain Gangster Families. This would have been perfectly okay if he wasn't a vortex for miscalculations and backfiring ideas.

So when he stretched out his arm and held out the ski mask to her, Brooke quickly shook her head. “You're fucking kidding, right? What happened to just having to drive the van?” She demanded.

“C'mon, girl!” Lamar said, punctuating his words with his hands, “you're all tiny so you can like, pull some ninja shit and sneak in! You can just slip through a window or something. Ain't no one gonna be home anyway, and we'll be in and out real quick. Stealthy as a motherfucker, B, that's how it's gonna get done.”

They stood facing each other on the curb in front of a small garage, surrounded by weathered gang tags. On one side of the garage sat a windowless white van, and on the other side, was Lamar's own home, his yard having been taken over by the hollowed out shells of cars. Weeds and grass grew from cracks in the sidewalk and concrete, mostly ignored and left to flourish. His wasn't the only house on Forum Drive to show years of wear and tear; almost the entirety of the houses on the street were showing their age. Small and close together, they looked like the remains of worn-down teeth.

The longer it took her to answer, the more Lamar began to shift from side to side. Tall and wiry, he seemed to be all limbs. Each movement came in the form of a loping slouch, which slowly grew more exaggerated the more impatient that he became. He stepped forward, shoe scuffing against the ghost of a hopscotch grid. Above their heads, Brooke could hear the tiny bodies of moths tapping against the piss-yellow street lights.

“Double the effort, double the profit, right?” He urged.

When she finally reached out and took the ski mask from Lamar, he smiled, but she didn't return it. Inside the van, Brooke cranked the key in the ignition, causing the headlights to turn on and flood the street in front of them. It occurred to her that less than twelve hours ago, she had washed blood and grave dirt from her body, watching it run down her legs and circle the drain.

“El Burro Heights, right?” Brooke asked and guided the van out of its parking spot.

“Uh-huh. Brother over there got a little business going on,” Lamar said.

“What kind of business?”  
“Dope. He supplying to all kinds of motherfuckers, but not enough to the Families.”

“So he's not affiliated with anyone in particular?” Brooke asked, “because I don't want to get into deeper shit than what your boy has me in already, L.”

“Nah. This dude a neutral party,” Lamar replied, “he just need to pay some respect.”

“And you couldn't get Frank to help?”

Lamar shrugged his shoulder, shaking his head and propping his elbow up on the edge of the window. He curled his hand by his face and leaned his temple against his knuckles. “He went and found himself some old white dude, remember? But like, y'know...if he wanna be like that, then he gonna be like that. We got business to take care of, shorty. Besides, F can't stay away from his homies forever, y'know? We're family.”

Driving out of Strawberry, Brooke glanced to him briefly. Lamar turned his dark eyes to her.

“You're jealous,” She said and grinned.

“Jealous?” Lamar repeated, blinking. “Me? Jealous of some old asshole? Nuh-uh. No way. I don't get jealous.”

“Exactly what someone would say if they were jealous.”

“Girl, no. Listen,” He said and straightened up in the seat, his head nearly brushing the ceiling, “it ain't my fault that fool been neglecting the hood--”

“Neglecting the Chamberlain Families or you?”

“Oh! _Oh!_ So it's gonna be like _that_?” Lamar exclaimed. “Lemme tell you something: I ain't jealous. I am _concerned_.”

“Concerned? About what? _Please_ , you janky asshole. You've been creeping around his aunt's house even more now! Nah, you're fucking green with envy.”

“That's 'cos his aunt's been pretty lonely since ol' Franklin's been gone,” Lamar said, “and I'm a gentleman, baby. You know that. A loc can't leave the lady all alone like that.”

“Uh-huh. So, does she do that feminist chanting stuff during?” Brooke asked.

“During what?”  
“When she's getting it."

Lamar burst out into gale of sudden laughter, lurching forward against the seat belt strap across his chest. “Not my fault she got all that ass,” He said against his hand.

Brooke snickered and turned the worn-smooth wheel.

By the time they arrived in El Burro Heights, most of the windows in the houses along the block were dark. The white van came to a steady crawl down one of the blocks. Junk sat in moist clusters along the curbs and outside of locked gates, the smell of mold and garbage thick in the air. The neighborhood seemed to Brooke like a forlorn thing, largely regarded by the rest of the city as something to forget. At Lamar's direction, she brought the van to a halt outside of a house that sat at the end of the block. Empty and alone, the house loomed above them on a slight elevation. From the street she could see white heating strips placed along the roof, standing out bright and new against the dull shingles. The walls of the house and the porch had been pressure-washed recently, but not well. Stripes of grime lingered around the gutters and in corners. A lone yard gnome sat at the edge of the porch, coated in grass clippings. Brooke shut off the engine and gazed up into its large windows, narrowing her eyes.

“So where is this guy?” She asked.

“Got word that the dude's visiting his mom. Been gone since this morning.”

Brooke only made a quiet sound in response. She pulled the ski mask over her head, Lamar doing the same.

“Ready?” Lamar asked, one hand on the door handle. When Brooke nodded, he opened the door and ducked out into the street.

Brooke followed Lamar as he lead the way up the concrete steps and through the chain-link gate. They moved silently around the corner of the house and edged their way around to the back. From here, part of the road was blocked by a storage shed, which Brooke saw had also been pressure-washed. Its single window was soaped over from the inside, making it impossible to see through. The fence that circled the yard was a piecemeal blend of chain-link and white picket. Pools of dirty water collected in the seats of the plastic lawn furniture and the recycling bin next to the shed.

From her pocket Brooke produced a tension wrench and pick. Made months ago from the windshield wiper of an old Bravado Buffalo, the small metal tools fit comfortably in the palm of her hand. She approached the back door, slipped in the tension wrench, and began to apply gentle pressure. Lamar lurked behind her, watching as she slid the pick into the lock and began to scrub back and forth inside.

“C'mon, B,” Lamar urged in a hushed voice.

“Shut up and lemme do the thing,” Brooke replied. Her teeth itched as the metal grated together.

When the lock popped, she put the tools back in the pocket of her jeans, gripped the metal knob, and opened the door silently.

“There we go!” Lamar said as he crept into the darkened kitchen. As he moved past Brooke, he clicked on a small flashlight.

The inside of the house had the same lazy obsession with cleanliness of the outside. The linoleum in the kitchen gleamed under their feet and the counter tops were free of any crumbs or clutter, but the mop had been left out, leaning against the corner of the room with its head in a bucket of dirty water. A calendar from a local Chinese restaurant hung on the front of an old door displaying the year 2012 in red and gold. Brooke looked at a neatly stacked pile of bills on the small dining table with mild interest, picked one up, and saw the name _Colin Jacobi_ stamped in hard black letters.

From where she stood, Brooke could see into the living room, which was lit only by what light managed to filter in through the yellowing curtains and broken blinds. Lamar's flashlight flicked over a large flat screen television and slowly ran down a shelf of videogames that were neatly aligned beside of it. Raising her chin and breathing in, she noted a low skunk-like odor. It was faint and ghost-like, and it seemed to come from everywhere.

“Any idea where he's keeping the stuff?” Brooke asked, clicking on her flashlight. She aimed it down the length of the short hallway, the light bouncing back off a series of framed pictures on the wall. Faces of strangers smiled from behind the glass.

“Nah. But dude is growing it somewhere in here.”

“Okay. Look up here and I'll check the door in the kitchen. Could be a basement.”

Brooke left Lamar's side as he moved down the hallway, stepping silently back into the kitchen. Going in front of the door, she tested the old-fashioned knob, finding it locked. Once again she brought out the metal tools, sliding one into the gaping keyhole and beginning to scrub with the other, holding her flashlight in her mouth as she worked. When the door was unlocked, she opened it slowly, letting the hinges creak. The smell was stronger, rolling up from the shadows in heavy plumes. Where she expected heavy darkness were dim shadows instead. Pointing her flashlight down into the depths, it revealed a wooden staircase and the smooth concrete floor at the bottom. Brooke looked up the bare walls for a light switch but found none. Sighing through flared nostrils, she began to descend, only to pause as something touched her ankle. She quickly looked down, breath catching.

A guitar string was stretched across one of the steps. Brooke lowered a hand and strummed it once, letting it twang faintly. She yanked it from the wall and held it in front of her face. A trip wire. A tumble from this height could easily have broken her neck, and if that hadn't killed her, the concrete smashing against her skull at the bottom would have. She pinched the string between her thumb and finger and threw it behind her, where it landed on the linoleum, curled up like a dead snake.

Moving more carefully, Brooke stepped down the staircase. The stink grew heavier, along with a dense heat that made it hard to breathe in the mask. At the bottom, she turned. Her eyes widened.

To her immediate left was a metal sink and counter, ending with a miniature refrigerator. Beyond that were a series of small white shelves draped in vines and leaves, wielding vibrantly red tomatoes and fluffy heads of lettuce. The basement was large and mostly dark save for the long lights that hung from the ceiling in rows, their golden glow reflected in the mylar walls. Below them, crystals gleamed off of more than a dozen tall marijuana plants set on wooden benches. They looked as though a heavy frost had came over their leaves and buds, making their branches lush and white. Brooke approached one of the plants and touched its buds. Tendrils of orange hair sprang delicately through its crystals and stuck to her fingers. Even just one of these plants was worth at least ten grand. In front of her was a fortune made up of a hydroponic jungle.

“Holy shit,” Brooke said.

A thump upstairs, hard enough to make the floor above her tremble.

Brooke jerked her head upwards as another thump came. Then another, softer now. Her breath came in shallow puffs.

“Lamar?” She called up.

No answer.

She turned her back on the plants and started up the stairs two steps at a time. Reaching the top, she craned her neck into the kitchen and called again. Again, nothing. Licking her lips, Brooke headed quickly into the living room, swinging the flashlight around. No sign of him. Her skin crawled as she looked down the hallway. A motionless fan of light spilled out of the single bedroom at the end, flaring out from the end of a dropped flashlight that lay in the doorway. Sweat itched her skin under the mask and ran down her back. Pulse rushing in her ears. Walking quickly. Turning to look.

Seeing now.

Freezing.

In the beam of her flashlight was Lamar, on his knees and with his mask ripped away, his hands clutching an arm hooked around his neck. Over his shoulder, a pale man glared at Brooke, his eyes gleaming as he pressed a pistol against Lamar's temple. They remained as though composed in tableau, waxen and still.

Blowing fine strands of dark hair out of his long face, Colin Jacobi spoke.

“Take off the mask,” He ordered, “take it off and put your hands up.”

“Put the gun down and I will!” Brooke snapped.

“Do it or else I shoot,” He said and then suddenly yelled, “FUCKING DO IT!”

Brooke took the mask and pulled it off, dropping it to the floor. She raised her hands, palms facing out. When she swallowed, she choked.

“Okay. Who are you assholes? Who you with?”

“No one, man! We're independent,” Lamar lied.

“Bullshit. I call bullshit!” Colin exclaimed, pulling his lips back from his teeth.

“He's telling the truth--”

“Tell me one more lie and I'll make you clean up what's left of him.”

Brooke clenched her jaw. Behind Lamar, Colin gave a twitching grin. Color rose on his thin face and he clenched the gun tighter, making his knuckles a stark white ridge.

In his sweat-slicked palm, the gun creaked and popped.

The grin fell when Lamar clapped his hand over Colin's wrist and began to pull the gun away. At the same time, he raised his other arm and arched his back slightly, groping for the back of Colin's hoodie. They struggled wildly, all thrashing limbs, before Lamar rose up slightly and yanked hard on the red fabric. Colin cried out as he was flipped gracelessly over Lamar's shoulder, landing hard enough on his back to make his teeth click together. Taking advantage of Colin's daze, Lamar pressed his knee hard against his chest and wrenched the gun from his hand. He looked to Brooke, chest pumping as he caught his breath. Raising the gun, he aimed it at a Love Fist poster on the wall, and pulled the trigger.

A pellet flew through the air with a sharp snap and punctured the poster harmlessly.

Standing now, Lamar shot out a foot, connecting it to Colin's side.

“That's what he get for fucking with an Apache,” He said and tossed the pellet gun to the side, letting it clatter against the dresser.

Colin groaned and curled into himself, holding his side and gasping.

“You wanna tell us where the shit is, or do we gotta scalp your sorry ass?” Lamar demanded.

“Basement,” Brooke said, answering before Colin could, “there's rows and rows of it.”

“And yet ain't hardly none of it going to the Families.”

Colin gritted his teeth and squirmed to a small bedside table behind him. He flinched when Lamar moved towards him, quickly clicking on a lamp and pressing his back against the wall. Brooke squinted in the sudden light.

“That's what you're here for? Chamberlain? I sell to you guys all the time,” He said, “I mean, shit. Thanks to you assholes, I got myself a new pressure-washer.”

“Then how come we ain't seen anything?” Lamar asked.

“Fuck if I know!” Colin replied, his voice becoming shrill.

“Remember any names? Who's the last person who bought stuff for CGF?” Brooke asked.

Colin thought for a moment, sucking on the inside of his cheek.

“Can't remember. It was a week ago, maybe. Usually you guys come inside and we do business, but lately, not so much,” He said.

“The fuck you talking about?”

Colin looked between Lamar and Brooke and furrowed his brow. He blinked in confusion.

“You guys seriously don't know?” He asked. Grunting, he stood, using the wall for support.

“Just say it,” Brooke said, impatience lacing her tone.

“For the past couple of months, I've had to leave the package in another location. Y'know, like in a hidden spot. I do the same with a few other dudes,” Colin explained, “they take the package, sometimes they leave money, and sometimes I get it wired to an account. CGF has been doing the same thing. I go, I leave the stuff, and someone comes up and picks it up. That enough for you guys or am I going to get beaten some more?”

“Do you ever see a car?” Brooke asked.

“Yeah, but it's just different ones every time. Different places every time too.”

“Okay, then here's the deal,” She said and stepped around Lamar, “next time you gotta go drop off a package for the Families, you're going to call us. Then we're all going to go and see who picks up the package. Got it?”

“Why the fuck should I—SHIT!”

Brooke wrapped her fist around the flashlight, shooting it out and colliding it against Colin's face. Colin brought his hands up to his mouth and dropped to the floor, legs sprawled out. He bowed his head, groaning thickly, and tried to clamp his fingers over the flow of blood that trickled down his chin.

“Unless you want a broken nose, too, you'll take us to the drop-off point,” Brooke said, “wanna try me?”

Colin pulled a hand away and looked in dull wonder at the blood that coated his palm, tonguing a split in his lip. He sniffed and spat out a wad of blood to the floor between his legs. He rolled his eyes up to Brooke and Lamar.

“Fine. Only one of you, though. I don't like being outnumbered,” He said. His bottom teeth were stained crimson. “You assholes don't play fair.”

Brooke looked briefly around the room before spotting a ballpoint pen on the end of the dresser. She picked it up, took the cap off with her teeth, and began writing her phone number in large looping numerals on the wall. Behind her, Colin made a quiet sound of protest. Brooke stepped back, looked at her handiwork, and noted with satisfaction that she had managed to scratch off some of the paint.

“Call this when you're going to drop off the stuff,” She said and tossed the pen to Colin's crumpled figure, where it bounced off his chest and landed on the floor.

“Yeah, fool,” Lamar added, dwarfing Brooke as he stood up to his full height behind her, “or else we may come back and just torch your operation, dig?”

“Whatever. I get it,” Colin mumbled sourly.

Brooke elbowed Lamar and turned to leave, leading the way through the house and back outside. She slammed the door shut, hoping to punctuate the threat she had given the man inside. Inside the van, she sucked in a deep breath and drummed her fingers on the wheel, pressing her lips tightly together and looking ahead without actually seeing what was in front of her. Streaked across the knuckles of her right hand was a smear of blood from Colin's mouth, which she largely regarded with a vague sense of interest.

When Lamar shut his door, she jerked.

“If he calls, I'll go,” Brooke said, “you're too much of a target. Everyone recognizes your lanky ass.”

“And if he don't call?” Lamar asked.

Brooke started the engine, letting the van sit idly as she turned to the house. The light in the living room was turned on, and in the window was Colin, watching them through the blinds. When he saw that he had been spotted, he pulled away and let the blinds snap shut.

“We do as you said,” Brooke replied as she pressed on the gas, “we burn it all.”

A few houses down, a small security camera stared from the corner of a porch, whirring gently as it zoomed in on the van and its occupants. Inside the house, blown up across a screen, their image remained long after they had driven away.


	3. Pleas and Thank You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brooke asks Franklin for help.

The summer tourists that crowded the sidewalk market in Vespucci Beach were as much a fixture there as the seagulls, and to Brooke there was little difference between them. She and Leah walked together down the length of the market, dodging throngs of sun-baked bodies. They spoke between bites of a pretzel that they passed between each other, taking turns pinching off pieces and sucking the salt from their thumbs afterwards.

Leah squinted at Brooke through her sunglasses.

“So.”

“ _So,”_ Brooke repeated.

“Did you ever manage to clean your trunk?”

“What? _Oh_. Oh yeah. The money from Gerald helped.”

"And the shovels?"

"Gone."

“Anything happen since then?”

Brooke shook her head, sending darts of sunlight streaking through her hair.

“Just as well,” Leah said, “what's one man to the rest of San Andreas?”

“I should feel bad about it,” Brooke said, “but I don't feel anything. Am I a sociopath or something? Shit, man. Maybe I am.”

“You're not a sociopath; you just got a shitty sense of judgement.”

Brooke snorted and flung a piece of pretzel over their heads and into the sand. She watched as seagulls fought over it in a flurry of long beaks and white wings, their cries muted against the crowd of burnt-cheeked vacationers.

“Explains a lot.”

“Doesn't it? Sometimes I think I should've became a shrink or something,” Leah said. Suddenly snapping her fingers in the air between them, she continued: “oh! So, how'd that thing with Lamar go?”

“I punched a guy in the mouth,” Brooke answered, speaking around the last bite of pretzel that she had tongued into her cheek.

“You always did have a way with men. Who was it?” Leah asked and raised an eyebrow.

“Some skinny guy in El Burro.”

As Brooke explained what happened in a quiet voice, Leah listened carefully, bowing her head close. If she disapproved at all, she didn't say anything. But the more she heard, the more a crease deepened between her eyebrows. To Brooke, it was an expression of business. It was the one that Leah wore when she had driven up to the pier the other night—an impassive mask of concentration that had made her eyes gleam like chips of amber.

When Brooke finished, Leah merely nodded. To her, this was just one more problem in a long line of them. She had gotten very good at listening to Brooke's problems.

“So, what now?” She raised her sunglasses into her hair, letting them sit among the braids.

“I wait for a phonecall. Until then, I guess I just lay low.”

“How do you know the guy will even call?” Leah asked.

“I don't,” Brooke replied with a shrug.

“And if he doesn't?”

“Then he doesn't. I move on with my life.”

 _It's a lie,_ Brooke thought, _and Leah knows it._

Her words carried a finality that she didn't feel. They sounded cheap and easily broken. It was a ritual that spanned decades of self-deception, and it was one that Brooke had found to be more embarrassing each time she went through it. Even as little girls, Leah had always been the one to listen while the other spilled her anxieties. With each year, the theme of their relationship had become a parody of itself. Guilt touched her insides with a finger of sickness as she saw Leah press her lips together and look away. It was easy to fear that with each mishap she would pull further and further away, disappearing before Brooke realized what had happened.

She would have tried to convince Leah that _this_ _time_ , she meant it, but instead Brooke watched the light of recognition flicker across her face.

“Isn't that Lamar's guy?”

Brooke looked.

It was.

She had only met him a couple times in passing, and she could have counted on one hand the words that they had exchanged. But he had become as much of a presence in her life as Lamar had, mainly due to the latter's constant mentioning. Standing in the shadow of the weed dispensary, Franklin Clinton paid little attention to the streams of people. Rather he remained immovable, letting the crowd flow around him like a rock splitting a river. When he moved away from the green darkness of the dispensary, he walked with a self-awareness that was at once powerful and careful. Brooke watched as he brought a slender canister up to his face and smelled the inside of it briefly before screwing the lid back on. Then, smooth as a magic trick, the canister disappeared inside the back pocket of his cargo shorts.

“Should we say hi--” Leah began.

“FRANKLIN!” Brooke shouted, cupping a hand around her mouth.

“Oh. _Well_. Okay then.”

Franklin's natural response was to grow tense as he heard his name being called, expression sharpening as he turned to look for whoever was yelling for him. But, seeing Brooke, he relaxed, revealing a pensive mildness around his eyes and mouth. With the intensity having faded from his features, he suddenly looked very young. He raised a hand in a brief wave before making his way to them, screwing his eyes against the sunlight.

“Kinda funny seeing you outside Forum Drive,” Brooke said.

“Shit, I could say the same,” Franklin replied. The corner of his mouth rose in a small half-smile.

An awkward moment passed as he glanced between them. When Brooke failed to realize her rudeness, Leah extended her hand and took Franklin's, giving it a firm shake.

“Leah Shelton,” She said with a grin. “Brooke's friend.”

“Right. Hey.”

“I hear you're another poor soul doing work with Lamar.”

Franklin shook his head. “For better or worse, I guess,” He said, “not so much anymore. Been trying to break out of that.”

“Yeah, he said you had some guy you've been doing stuff with,” Brooke said.

“That fool says a lot of things.”

Brooke paused, chewing the inside of her cheek. She picked at an idea carefully, considering it.

“Has he said anything about El Burro, though?”

“What, that job y'all did? Yeah. Why?” Franklin asked, growing leery.

“Because I'm supposed to meet this guy, right? Well--”

“Oh no.”

“--I can't go alone and I thought—”

“ _Hell no_.”

“--You could tail us in case something—goddammit Franklin, come back!”

Franklin had turned to leave, giving them a view of his broad back. He walked briskly, making Brooke have to jog to keep up with him. She ignored Leah shouting behind her and reached forward to grab the sleeve of Franklin's shirt. Forced to a stop, Franklin whipped towards her, his nostrils flaring. His hand engulfed Brooke's as he pulled it away and released it into the air.

“Listen, I don't do that gangbanging shit no more, okay? I'm done. I want to be done!” Franklin said, “this is y'all's problem, so y'all solve it on your own.”

“All I'm asking you is to tail me when I meet this guy. That's all. I just don't want to go in without someone watching my back,” Brooke said.

“Not my fault you got yourself into this. I got a lot of other people's bullshit on my mind, and I don't need this too!”

“Then do it for Lamar!”  
“I have been doing it for him; I've been doing it for that motherfucker for _years_.”

Brooke searched desperately for something to say, her mind flailing. But the only thing she could think of was the nagging idea that she was asking too much of him, especially considering that he was barely anything but a stranger to her. When Leah came up behind her and touched her elbow, Brooke dodged her hand and moved out of reach. Pleading words swelled inside of her, tasting sour in her mouth.

( _i need help._ )

( _what did you do?_ )

“Please? Fucking hell, Frank. _Please_.”

The longer Franklin took to answer, the more Brooke began to fidget. She nervously popped her knuckles, pressing down on her fingers until they ached. There was a sweeping relief when he finally let out a long sigh and rolled his eyes into his head.

“Fine. Okay,” Franklin said. There was a unmistakable weariness in his voice. “Just text me when you hear something. You got my number? Here...”

After trading numbers, Franklin turned to leave. Brooke watched him go with a growing sense of something deep and almost sad. His sturdy frame was swallowed by the crowd, disappearing into the waves of heat that rose from the sidewalk. Her phone was still clutched in her hand, which displayed his name in bold letters.

When Leah put an arm around her shoulders and drew her in close, Brooke didn't pull away.

 

Brooklyn Frye's apartment had, at best, a magpie's attempt at decoration. Besides the dozens of scented candles that she seemed to have an obsession with, there was no rhyme or reason to the things she stuck up or put on display. If it wasn't for her lazy housekeeping, it may even have been considered charmingly eccentric. But instead it showed a distinct lack of organization that could probably be applied to other parts of her life.

Standing in her kitchen, Brooke tweezed a bag of scorched popcorn between her fingers and dropped it on the counter. She dared to pull open the top, only to cough on the cloying reek of the smoke that rose from inside. Making a face, she waved her hand in the air and turned away.

“God, it smells like ass. Mind opening a window?”

Leah shouting from the bathroom, the door of which was left open. From where she was in the kitchen, Brooke could see Leah standing over the sink, removing her contacts and putting them in fluid.

Bare feet padding on the thin carpet, Brooke went to the window by the couch and tugged it open with a quiet grunt. From where she was, she could see the lights from the homes in the canals moving across the black water in broken shapes. If it were daytime, she may even have been able to see the thin strip of ocean in the distance. Somewhere, someone was playing a Billy Idol song, distant enough that there was just a thin trace of music.

Behind her, Leah was making her way across the room and into the kitchen. She leaned her hip against the counter and peeked into the popcorn bag at the charred mess, the steam causing her slim frames to fog up. Taking her glasses off, she cleaned them on her shirt before slipping them back on.

“Fuck popcorn and fuck that microwave,” Brooke muttered. She picked her underwear out of her ass as she followed Leah into the kitchen.

“Ain't you just a lovely bundle of joy tonight,” Leah remarked dryly. There was a tinkling sound as she played with the dainty windchime that hung from the ceiling near her head.

“Ain't I always?”

Neither spoke as Brooke pulled a liter of eCola and a bottle of whiskey from the fridge. She made them cocktails in plastic cups, not bothering to measure out the amount of liquor she mixed with the soda. When she handed one to Leah, they clacked them together and drank deeply. It was their way to use Saturday nights to drown out the anxieties of the week, as it had been since highschool.

“Question,” Brooke said and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. 

“The answer is yes.”

“Yes what?”

“That you should consider throwing out some of these goddamn candles.”

“Well, suck my ass. I like them.”

“It looks like you're doing a séance,” Leah said.

They chortled into their drinks and moved to the couch, plopping down and putting their feet up on the coffee table. They sat hip-to-hip, their shoulders touching. Brooke closed her eyes and listened to the distant music, letting herself indulge in this small act of girlish intimacy. The degree of comfort between them was to a point where they knew each other's bodies better than any man, knowing every scar and speaking novels about them all. Brooke played with the fashionably-frayed fabric around Leah's shorts, rubbing it between her fingers. 

“But no. Really, I got a question.”

“Yeah? Go on...”

“Did I seem thirsty or something? Earlier, with Frank?”

Leah snickered and said, “Oh, c'mon. It's not like you're after his dick. But if you were, I wouldn't blame you.”

“I just don't like seeming desperate!” Brooke exclaimed, throwing a hand in the air.

“Girl, you ran after him! Jesus, is that what has you in such a bitchy mood? Holy shit.”

“It's not just that. It's just this whole mess.” Brooke took a long drink from her cup before using it to gesture towards Leah. “Oh, and I only ran because the fucker walks fast.”

“Sure. Okay,” Leah teased.

“Besides, you're wanting that dick more than I am,” Brooke said. “You pushed my ass aside to shake his hand.”

“'Cos you were being rude and not introducing me.”

“Why would you want me to introduce you unless you wanted the dick?”

“I'm gonna smack the shit out of you.”

Brooke threw back her head and laughed. However, it faded as her phone began to ring. The humor vanished from the room, deflating like a balloon. They felt as though someone had sucked the air from their lungs. Her and Leah gazed at one another, listening to the ringtone rise and fall with each note. The phone vibrated across the pitted surface of the coffee table. An unknown number flashed across its screen.

“Get it, girl,” Leah said.

With the taste of whiskey in her mouth, Brooke did just that.

 


	4. Body Farm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brooke and Franklin are taken to a farm where they are dragged deeper into trouble.

Sitting in a parking lot across from Leroy's Electricals, Brooke was hesitating. Her glovebox was open, revealing the .45 inside.  
  
The other night wasn't the first time that she had used the gun, but it was the first time that hadn't involved looking down the barrel of someone else's. Other than to clean it and replace the skateboard tape on the grip, the pistol had remained there, untouched, since the incident. While driving to Mirror Park, Brooke could hear it shifting around with each turn. She had tried to hide it by turning on the radio, but then she realized that she could actually feel the gun moving. Each tiny clatter sent vibrations into her hands, causing a maddening itch to form. At stop lights, Brooke scraped her nails across her palms only to discover that the itch was too deep. It had settled into the marrow of her bones like an ache.  
  
With it came the presence of the dead man, who had ridden with her as an unwanted passenger. Nameless and knowing his face only by the mess she had made of it, he seemed no longer human. Brooke had desecrated him further by digging him up repeatedly and continuing to dissect his memory, turning him into something ghoulish. She was using him to haunt herself, and with her imagination, it was easy to conjure up ways for the dead man to come back.  
  
Seeing Colin's Glendale pulling up beside of her, Brooke quickly grabbed the gun. Contemplation could come later, once she was home again. She double-checked the safety and stuffed it into her jeans at the hip. The henley shirt that she wore did nothing to disguise the lump, making her regret having not worn something to better cover it up. When she got out of her car and walked around to the Glendale's passenger side, Brooke took the chance to look for any sign of Franklin. Before leaving her apartment, she had texted him, but hadn't received any response. So when she finally spotted his familiar white car lurking down the street, she took what little relief she could from the fact that she wasn't alone.  
  
Leaning across the console, Colin opened the car door. He let out a derisive snort when he saw the gun.  
  
“Nice. Very subtle,” He said.  
  
“Protection,” Brooke said as she sat down. The seat exuded the stink of pot as she sank into it.  
  
“Against?”  
  
“Assholes who try anything stupid.”  
  
“Okay, yeah. I get it,” Colin said and tongued the stitches that held his lip together. He crossed his arms over his chest and slouched down in his seat, beginning to bob his leg up and down.  
  
“So, where is it?” Brooke asked.  
  
“Where's what?”  
  
“The pot.”  
  
“Oh. See that alley? To the left of Leroy's? I got it tucked in there somewhere.”  
  
Brooke followed Colin's finger as he pointed across the street. The alley was lit by a single lamp high on the wall of the electronics store and lined by dumpsters and forgotten boxes. Stray litter lay scattered beneath the dumpsters and along the middle, where it had long since been flattened by tires. It was impossible to see how far the alley went, even when Brooke craned her neck to try and find out.  
  
“Any idea when someone will show up?” She asked.  
  
Colin shrugged a shoulder.  
  
“Uh...shit, who knows? Get comfortable while you can, I guess.”  
  
They sat in uncomfortable silence for nearly twenty minutes. Every once in a while, as subtly as she could, Brooke checked to make sure that Franklin's car was still there. Not just to settle her own paranoia, but it took her mind off the itch in her hands. By the time the black SUV arrived, she had begun to dig her nails into the center of her palms. Its windows were heavily tinted, reducing its occupants to vague shapes. It slowed and turned into the alley, wedged itself between the dumpsters, and disappeared from view. Brooke leaned forward intently, barely breathing as she waited for the SUV to reappear.  
  
When it didn't, she said, “there's no fucking way that we can see who's picking the stuff up.”  
  
“Did you not think your brilliant scheme all the way through? You didn't even consider that maybe—just maybe—you wouldn't be able--”  
  
“We're following them.”  
  
Colin blinked furiously, taken aback.  
  
“Wait. What?” He demanded.  
  
“When they come out of the alley,” Brooke explained, speaking slowly and enunciating her words, “we're going to follow them. Get it?”  
  
“Fuck that! I agreed to bring you here--”  
  
Brooke took the gun from her waist and shoved it into Colin's ribs, causing his words to turn into a long wheeze. “Follow them,” She said, deepening her voice.  
  
Colin put his forehead on the steering wheel between his cold hands, and then let out a loud groan. When the SUV lurched to the mouth of the alley and started down the street, he cranked the ignition and pulled out after it.  
  
The SUV lead the procession north alongside the Senora Freeway, where the city grew sparse and gave way to dusty countryside; the billboards and skyscrapers that once blocked view of the sky became trees, and mountains cradled the roads in their valleys. The smog that Brooke was used to thinned out enough to let her see the few stars that dusted the sky. After a while, the roads disappeared completely, replaced by dirt and gravel that crunched under their wheels. They rose with the hills, allowing for views of the cars on the freeway and the desert wilderness that surrounded them, where shadows rolled deep and turned the land into something secretive. On the horizon, windmills spun, beating black circles against the sky.  
  
Brooke gripped the seat between her legs, trying to stabilize herself whenever the Glendale bobbed across a pothole.  
  
“It's been almost an hour,” She said, “who the fuck operates out here?”  
  
Colin sighed and rubbed his finger in the inner-corner of his eye.  
  
“The only thing I know is that there's only two things that Blaine County really likes: meth and incest.”  
  
“What a lot of good that does us,” Brooke said.  
  
“Listen, I'm a drug dealer,” He said, “not an encyclopedia.”  
  
“It seems kind of stupid not to keep up with competition.”  
  
“I've learned not to ask questions.”  
  
Ahead of them, the SUV took a right into the entrance of a lone farm. Colin stopped the car down the road so that they wouldn't be spotted, parking the Glendale partly in the weeds where, like a tired dog, it fell still. In the gap that the engine left, Brooke heard the lingering drone of a low-flying plane. From where they sat, they were able to make out the back of a large barn, but not much else. Besides the brief illumination from the SUV's headlights behind the line of trees and the cows in the field, there was no other sign of life. Brooke waited a beat before taking off her seatbelt and opening the car door. She stood and raised her hand in the air, beginning to flag down the car that had been following them. Behind her, Colin shut his door with a sharp snap.  
  
“Come the fuck on! The fuck is this bullshit?” He demanded.  
  
“Back-up,” Brooke answered simply.  
  
Colin let out a shrill sound and ran his fingers down the length of his face.  
  
“What the hell? How long were we being followed? God, man. What the fuck...”  
  
Franklin parked his car just behind them, briefly bathing them in his headlights. He didn't acknowledge them until after he had walked around the length of the Buffalo and opened the passenger door. Saying something too softly for Brooke to hear and snapping his fingers, Franklin ushered a heavy rottweiler out of the car.  
  
“Lamar know you brought Chop?” Brooke asked with a wry grin.  
  
“I'd say, since Chop's been staying at my crib,” Franklin replied and rubbed the dog's ear affectionately.  
  
“You don't keep that thing on a leash?” Colin asked. He watched Chop warily, shifting away.  
  
“'That thing' could be what saves your skinny white ass, motherfucker,” Franklin said.  
  
Brooke held out her hand, letting Chop sniff her fingers before she scratched him under the chin. “Tell him, buddy,” She cooed, “tell him how you could bite the balls off any dude.”  
  
“Uh, great. But I don't plan on letting my ass get saved, 'cos I'm leaving,” Colin said.  
  
“Whoa, hey! Where the fuck you going? We need you to see if you know these guys,” Brooke said.  
  
Colin shrugged before turning on his heel.  
  
“Not my problem, is it?”  
  
Brooke and Franklin exchanged glances.  
  
“Even if they're competition?” She prodded.  
  
“Why should I care about some hillbilly pricks? I do my business in Los Santos.”  
  
“But what if they manage to take your customers?”  
  
Colin paused, looking over his shoulder at them. “Bullshit,” He said, "no one that I work with is gonna drive all the way out here."  
  
“Well, it's clearly not someone who just wants to get high...”  
  
“With this kind of sneaky shit, they probably planning on reselling it,” Franklin said, picking up where Brooke had trailed off. “Y'know how it is, dog. You just giving these dudes the tools to use your own stuff against you.”  
  
Colin stared, absently beginning to chew on his stitches. When he didn't speak, Brooke continued.  
  
“They can grow way more out here than you can, right? Lower the price, get the gangs in on it. It's pure profit.”  
  
“You think that could happen?”  
  
“Why take the chance?”  
  
Colin stared off into the distance, where the windmills stood sentry against the horizon, beginning to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet. There was a deep-set fatigue on his face, making the circles under his eyes look more like bruises. He sighed and let his shoulders fall in a slump.  
  
“Fine, whatever,” He said and swung his arm towards the farm, “lead on. If anyone's gonna make money off my shit, it better be me.”  
  
Franklin lead the way, followed by Brooke and Chop, with Colin bringing up the back. They moved quietly, rounding around the edge of the wooden fence that surrounded the property. Once they were able to see around the large barn, they crouched down low behind the fence in thatches of weeds and grass that had been left to grow wild. To their left was the barn, from which corrugated metal roofs jutted over collections of junk: long boards neatly stacked and tied together; old metal drums, a few of which lay tipped over on their sides; and groups of milk cans. A large door—white and dirty—was visible from their hiding spot, as was the heavy padlock that kept it locked.  
  
Colin licked his lips and raised his nose to the air.  
  
“Smell that? It's meth,” He said.  
  
In the air was the stink of ammonia just beneath the smell of the livestock. Beside a door in the side of the barn, near the metal drums, there was an empty can of paint thinner and beyond that, bald patches marred the grass.  
  
“So let's burn the shit to the ground,” Franklin said. He produced a pistol from the inside of his hoodie and let it hang between his legs as he squatted in the grass with the others. Behind him, Chop whined softly.  
  
They went quiet as the smaller door opened and someone walked out—a young man, possibly no older than Brooke or Franklin. But years of drug use had ruined his skin, making him look tired and worn beyond his years. He began to walk back to a small farmhouse across from the barn, where three figures stood, smoking. Doused in shadow, the only thing Brooke could see were the burning tips of the cigarettes.  
  
Beside Brooke, Colin grew agitated. He curled his hands into fists and pressed them into his legs. Splotches of color started rising on his neck and cheeks. He moved forward as though to go after the ragged man, but instead merely gripped the wooden slat and seethed.  
  
“Larry fuckin' Tupper,” He said, spitting out the name.  
  
“Who?” Brooke asked. “That guy?”  
  
“Yeah..yeah...I used to have an operation with him years ago. Then the jizzball started going to some guy in Sandy Shores, and left me to deal with the goddamn mess he left behind. Fuck me, that toothless piece of shit is still trying to screw me over. He's gotta be working with someone, or else I'd recognize the voice. I'd recognize that goddamn son of a bitch's voice anywhere.”  
  
“We could check their ride,” Franklin said. “They probably parked on the other side.”  
  
Brooke ducked between the slats in the fence and took the gun from her jeans. She held the .45 with both hands, its weight both deadly and reassuring.  
  
“Keep me covered,” She said.  
  
“Eyes open, B,” Franklin said.  
  
Brooke edged along the barn, keeping an eye on the rusted door near the drums, and waited for the smokers on the porch to go back inside before going around the corner. Parked near the front was the SUV, its sides covered in dust. Between it and her was a large truck, more junk tucked against the barn's wall, and another door. Brooke licked her lips nervously and went closer, eyeing the door as she passed it. Everything was coming on too sharply—the stink of the meth lab, her boots against the dust, and her own pulse beating wildly in her ears. When Brooke got to the SUV, she peered over the edge of the window into the front seats. They were clear except for an empty cup from Burgershot, the plastic top removed to reveal the sticky inside.  
  
Looking in the back, Brooke saw a dark purple jacket laying across the seat. Leaning closer, nose nearly against the glass, she tried to look in the floor behind the driver's seat. A hoarse scream from behind her made her jump back and she spun around, swinging the gun upwards to aim. One hand held the butt of it steady, the other kept her finger on the trigger.  
  
Flailing on the ground and kicking up gravel, a man struggled with the snarling rottweiler that was pinning him down. Chop's jaws were locked securely around his forearm and his head shook back and forth, shredding easily through the thread-bare flannel shirt. A switchblade lay shining in the dust, which the man tried in vain to reach for. Strings of drool flew, tinted red with a stranger's blood.  
  
From around the corner, Franklin came running, legs pumping. With one swift movement, he kicked the switchblade away from the man's scrabbling hand.  
  
“Bite his ass, Chop! C'mon!”  
  
From the house came the shouts of men, their voices laced with a distinct Blaine County accent. Franklin and Brooke moved into cover behind the SUV just as the first gunshot came, the blast cracking through the night air.  
  
“Son of a bitch!” Brooke said, squatting.  
  
The firefight begun with a chorus of gunshots. Not just with the sharp booms from pistols, but joined in were the deep bellows of a shotgun. A bullet buried itself deep in one of the SUV's tires, making its front half sink towards the ground. One of the windows exploded above Franklin's head, sending a shower of glass across his shoulders and in his hair. He put his middle finger and thumb in his mouth and whistled shrilly, tasting gunpowder. Chop answered with a vicious growl and bolted forward, charging past them and into the line of men. A beast made of teeth and muscle, he knocked one of them to the ground with ease, the man's gun discharging as it hit the ground.  
  
Brooke heard someone shouting, “Git this goddamn dog! Blast its fuckin' head off!”  
  
Franklin aimed around the tail-end of the SUV. The gun jerked in his hand as he shot it, shells rising in an arch before falling to the ground, still smoking. He sent three rounds into a man who had been looking down the length of his shotgun at Chop. The gun fell from his hands as his heavy body crumpled, spots of blood blooming across his white wife-beater.  
  
Another gunshot and the tail-light burst into red shards. Franklin ducked quickly and turned his head away, but the side of his neck and ear stung. Blood gleamed on his umber skin.  
  
“Bitch-ass bullshit!” He exclaimed.  
  
Brooke's ears were ringing and every voice was muffled, hearing everything as if it were all through layers of heavy gauze. She aimed the pistol over the hood of the SUV, feeling the recoil jolt through her arms as she shot it. Shells flew and clattered like hail; one touched her forearm, branding her even through the fabric of the shirt. She managed to catch one of the men in the curve of his neck, just where his shoulder began. He raised a hand and clamped it over the bullet wound, eyes glassy as he fell to his knees. When someone went to try and drag his body behind cover, Brooke got him, too.  
  
She crouched down and pressed her shoulder against the tire. There was sweat in the hollow of her throat and her hair was beginning to frizz out from the loose knot she had put it in. Her legs were cramping badly.  
  
“Ballas are here. Where's Colin?”  
  
“If he's smart, he's staying right the fuck where he was before,” Franklin answered.  
  
There was no chance for Brooke to say anything else. Something was roaring inside the barn, and it sounded angry.  
  
   
  
Colin had stayed back for as long as he could, laying on his stomach in the grass. Alone, he let memories of Larry play like an old film, silent and reduced to grainy images. Things like Larry trying to convince him that _this guy in Sandy Shores is totally legit, he can hook us up, man._ The decision to go for the metal door had came after watching Larry as he joined in the firefight, and only when he finally noticed that it had been left open. The man who had came from them lay shivering and bleeding nearby, his arm torn apart by over 300 pounds of bite pressure. Colin wriggled under the fence and jogged to the door, keeping his head down. Intent on finding some way to get to Larry. Maybe to ambush him. In his hazed mind, it seemed like a sound plan. Inside the barn was plenty of useful things. Inside the barn was--  
  
Colin paused.  
  
The inside of the barn was dominated by a combine harvester. In the dim light, its shape could have been that from a nightmare. He had moved around it slowly, as though afraid that it may suddenly come to life and attack him. Standing at its side and behind its head, he reached out and scraped dirt away from the blades with his thumbnail. He licked his lips thoughtfully, letting his mouth hang open. The split in his lip had begun to bleed again. When he climbed up the side and peered inside the cab, he saw the key hanging from a small monitor opposite of him, dangling on a worn-out lanyard. He sat down behind the wheel and took it, fumbling with it before he managed to slip it inside the ignition.  
  
It was satisfying how the combine came to life. A maniacal grin spreading across his face, Colin had begun to drive.  
  
   
  
The combine harvester burst out of the barn almost grandly, breaking easily through the doors. Its blades in the front spun in a hellish surge of metal, eager and hungry, causing the men to scatter across the grounds. Brooke watched, ashen, as the combine caught one of them. There was a shrill scream as he was dragged under the head, his voice cut off as the blades ate him. The combine vomited him up soon after with a stomach-lurching belch of gore. Blood sprayed out of the funnel on the side and a shred of denim hung from its opening. Franklin began yelling at the top of his lungs for Chop, eyes wild with panic as the rottweiler barely managed to dodge the combine.  
  
“Oh shit. Shit,” He said, letting out a heavy breath. Franklin dropped to one knee as the dog approached and grabbed his collar, bringing him in close. “Shit, homie. I thought you was a goner.”  
  
Surprisingly fast, the combine harvester closed the distance between it and the farmhouse. Wobbly-legged and shouting, Colin jumped from the cab and rolled in the sandy dirt. There, sitting with his legs spread and his heels digging into the bald ground, he began pumping his fist in the air and baring his teeth.  
  
“THAT'S WHAT YOU FUCKIN' GET!” He bellowed. “Suck my dick, Larry! SUCK IT, YOU STUPID ASSHOLE!”  
  
The combine crushed the side of the house easily and tore through it, and by the time it reached the meth lab inside, Colin's victory had turned sour. He staggered to his feet and turned to run, a scarecrow-like figure against the destruction behind him. Tripping over one of the bodies, panic etched into his face, he waved his arms wildly to Franklin and Brooke.  
  
“Scatter! Fucking scatter!”  
  
They ran with him with Chop at their heels. Going through the fence and running down the road, hearing the first blooms of flames as the night lit up around them in a deafening explosion. Tremors shook the ground beneath their feet. Pieces of the farmhouse rained down from the sky, leaving comet tails of fire in the air. Even when they reached their cars, they could smell the acrid stink of smoke and burning chemicals. Brooke skidded to a halt and fought to catch her breath, her heart beating against her ribs. Gasping, she looked back, able to see the inferno through the trees. Transfixed, she stood beside Franklin, watching as columns of smoke and fire blocked out the stars. When the second explosion came, though smaller than the first, she still felt the hot rush of poisoned air against her face.  
  
“Someone's gonna call the cops or something soon,” Franklin said.  
  
Colin went to his car and jerked open the door, shaking. Spots of blood and dust covered his clothes and his eyes looked dull.  
  
“Well,” He said, “that was productive. I killed a dude, and it wasn't even the dude I wanted to get. Can I go now?”  
  
Brooke turned her head. “Maybe,” She said, throat stinging, “what's his name—Larry, right? Why would he be working with the Ballas?”  
  
“You think I fucking know?! I haven't spoken to the prick in two years! Listen, I'm going home, okay? Just...just leave me the fuck alone. I helped you identify the dude, and now, I'm done. I did my bit.”  
  
He sat down hard enough in the Glendale to make it rock a little. Brooke watched him drive off until she couldn't hear the engine anymore, standing in the middle of the road with the burning farm to her back. There was a strange sense of anticlimax, made worse by the fact that this wasn't even really anything that concerned her—not really. She didn't bleed green, not like Franklin or Lamar. Answers disappeared like sand through her fingers, and Brooke was left struggling to figure out what to do. Useless frustration and determination. Agitation at her own impatience.  
  
Franklin nudged her shoulder gently, catching her off-guard.  
  
“C'mon, B. Let's get out of here,” He said, not unkindly.  
  
“Did you see the jacket in the back?” Brooke asked.  
  
“Yeah, I did. But we can talk about that shit in the car. Unless you want more of them dudes to come for us.”  
  
In the car, Brooke leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. She didn't move as doors opened and closed, but she finally stirred as she felt Chop snuffling at her shoulder. She put a hand on the side of his face and kissed the top of his head, smelling blood on his breath.  
  
“You did good, buddy,” Brooke said quietly, “you did real good.”  
  
When Franklin started the Buffalo, the air conditioner came on full blast, causing goosebumps to form pleasantly on her skin. She watched the countryside move past the window in vague forms and shadows as they made their way back to the city, lulled into some kind of comfort. There was no dead man to ride with her, finally leaving her alone to dwell and wander. Dimly, in the back of her mind, Brooke circled around Larry Tupper. His was the only name she had gained from this mayhem, and it was in her nature to obsess. She brought up the details of the stained shirt around his waist and the scabs on his skin. Larry, who had left behind marijuana and a bitter friend to turn to something more potent in Sandy Shores.  
  
The itch in her palms was gone, but her muscles had grown sore from the recoil.  
  
“Ballas and rednecks,” She said, testing the words. “They work with guys like that?”  
  
“Man, I didn't think so,” Franklin replied. His ear was stinging, and when he caught sight of his reflection in the rear-view mirror, he saw blood crusted beneath it. “Lamar's gonna shit when he hears.”  
  
“Need help looking into it?”  
  
“I dunno. There's a bunch of crap going on right now,” He answered.  
  
“With that guy from Rockford Hills?” Brooke asked.  
  
“Maybe...well, yeah. We got this thing planned and it all got real intense real fast.”  
  
“You say it like it's a bad thing or something.”  
  
“It's not—or at least, I don't think it is. I'm breaking out of the hood, but it's like a goddamn whirlwind.”  
  
“So, like...who is this guy? Because I've been hearing a lot about him, but I don't got a name.”  
  
Brooke caught the way that Franklin paused before answering. She wondered if he realized how easy it was to tell when he was mulling something over, how he furrowed his brow and tilted his head slightly in deep thought.  
  
“Michael,” He said, “he's an okay dude. Too wrapped up in his own head, but that goes for just about everyone in Los Santos.”  
  
“If you guys need any help with anything, think you could call me?” Brooke asked. She picked her words carefully, watching Franklin's expression for any change.  
  
“I think I could, yeah, but no promises.”  
  
“Mind if I ask another favor?”  
  
“You ask a lot of favors, y'know that?” Franklin glanced to her and grinned faintly.  
  
Brooke laughed quietly. She couldn't deny it, as much as she wanted to. If there was a finite supply of favors that one was allowed to ask for, she was using hers up.  
  
“Can I get a ride home, y'think?” She asked.  
  
“Damn, you and just about everyone else asking for rides,” He said. “'Frank, take me here. Take me there.'”  
  
“Y'know, that's my same exact problem, too,” Brooke said.  
  
There was no dead man beside her, but one of flesh and blood. One who was scuffed and tired, but who still smiled easily when he wanted to.  
  
Franklin was still young enough for that.


End file.
